No True Knight
by evie vie
Summary: The naive young Queen of Ferelden loves the King, but she doesn't know the man. Featuring politics, passion, intrigue, adultery, masquerades, etc. Chapter 2: At the betrothal masquerade, things begin to get complicated.
1. Chapter 1

The smell of Denerim hit her right at the gate. The air was thick with it – mud, of course, and people, and possibly cabbage, and throughout it all the unmistakeable odor of wet dog. And there they were, people and mud and great drooling hounds, all the way through the city and up to the palace gate, and as they cheered her she had to try not to gag. Instead, she smiled. Her mother had taught her that a lady is always gracious, even when she is trying not to breathe.

"Ah," sighed the man at her side, "the smell of home. I've missed it." And then he turned to smile at her and take her hand, and everything – the weeks of bumpy travel, the uncouth language of the coachmen, and even the fact that she might never again see the graceful towers and manicured lawns of the palace at Val Royeaux – was worth it, just for that.

In all her wildest flights of fancy, she'd never dreamed of this. And, fueled by tales and songs and stories in books, she had dreamed of quite a lot. Miriette had been the flighty one, the one always longing for a handsome chevalier to rescue her from one thing or another and whisk her away to a life of grand romance. Her governesses and tutors had chided her, telling her to get her head out of the clouds and attend to reality. "Margrethe does that so I don't have to," she'd replied, and her older sister had laughed and agreed. The smart one and the pretty one, they were, and in Miriette's stories it was always the pretty one who caught the eye of the knight or the prince or whoever and was swept off her feet into happily ever after.

But it had been Margrethe the envoy had approached about the marriage, and Margrethe who had solemnly agreed to it – sensible Margrethe, who had stood there in the grand entry hall of their mother's estate in a fine dress of green and gold to meet the man at whose side she would rule a brave and filthy nation.

He had come from the capital on foot – Fereldans went everywhere on foot – with a dozen retainers and as many barking hounds, and instead of refreshing himself after the journey, he went directly to introduce himself to his future Queen. Even weary and dirty in travel-stained clothes, he was the most handsome man she had ever seen.

And it was Margrethe to whom this laughing, golden king smiled and said "My lady," and Margrethe whose hand he bent to kiss. And in that moment (and that night, and every day and night thereafter) Miriette wanted nothing more than for it to be her instead.

Now it was.

* * *

The Fereldans were a down-to-earth, lively lot – less civilized people than Miriette would call them "loud" and "badly dressed," but they had come unarmed as per the treaty, and even though their courtesies to a Dowager Princess and a Dowager Princess's daughters could have been more formal, they were far from the barbarians they were rumored to be. No one appeared to have any bear grease in their hair, at least. But their hair! Even the ladies! Especially the ladies!

What kind of women wore their hair short? It would be convenient for fighting, true, but that was why the chevalieres wore braids. Winding, pretty braids, not the messy dangling bits the Fereldans thought were festive. Apparently they also did all their haircuts with swords. Blindfolded.

Even Leliana. Her onetime dancing mistress had disappeared in mysterious circumstances years before, and reappeared in even more mysterious circumstances as a companion to the Hero of Ferelden, a lay sister, and an envoy to Orlais from their eastern neighbor. It was she who had negotiated the marriage, a tentative alliance between old enemies, a small step toward ending decades of conquest, war, and general dislike. But she was still the same sweet, teasing Leliana. Except for the hair, of course.

As for the Hero herself – well, she was confusing. Margrethe greeted her warmly, taking both her hands and kissing her cheek in the Orlesian greeting of highborn lady to highborn lady. The Warden Commader was thoroughly startled by this, staring like a nug in torchlight, and had to collect herself before giving them a mage's bow in return. Wasn't this the woman who had songs sung about her and babies named after her? Why would she be unnerved by simple courtesies?

* * *

"What do you think of her?" Margrethe asked. "The Warden Commander, I mean."

"I didn't take much notice," Miriette said. They were embroidering – meaning, they were poking aimlessly at embroidery hoops while gossiping. "I was too busy looking at the King. Maker, Margrethe, but you're lucky! I wish I were in your shoes. Oh, do I ever."

"Don't worry. You're the Empress' niece; you'll have your own highborn figurehead to marry soon enough." She made a stitch without looking, then pulled it out again. "Thought I have to admit this one's better than I'd hoped for. He looks so stern in the official portraits. I'm pleased he's more like his letters."

Miriette had seen some of the letters; he had nice handwriting, but his Orlesian grammar was atrocious, and she had been unimpressed. Right now, however, she suddenly had the urge to steal one and keep it under her pillow.

"You didn't tell me what you thought."

"Oh, you know what I think. You lucky wench!"

"I meant about the Warden Commander."

"Why does it matter?" Miriette sighed. "She does seem less... heroic than I expected. Shorter. More grim."

"I can't say I blame her," Margrethe said, and stitched quietly for a moment. "You know Garet's coming with us?" she said abruptly. "The King – Alistair, I suppose I can call him that now – wants him to head my personal guard."

"Mags! You get all the good-looking men! Leave some for me!" She frowned. "I wouldn't think Garet would be happy about that, though. After.... you know." The poor boy had moped around the yard for weeks after Margrethe had informed him of the engagement and dutifully returned all his favors. She had cried all that night on Miriette's shoulder, but in the morning she was dry-eyed, sensible Margrethe again, although she did get quiet and thoughtful whenever she passed the young knight in the corridor.

"Oh, I think Alistair can talk him into it." Margrethe gave her a secretive smile. "And if I can win over the Warden Commander – well. Maybe I'll end up being as lucky as you think I am."

"Oh, you already are! And if I was marrying Alistair I wouldn't care what anyone else in the world thought of me, Hero of Whatever or not."

Miriette regarded her sister for a moment and then sighed, exasperated. "You're as subtle as a rock, you know that?"

"So you keep telling me," Miriette said cheerfully. "Speaking of which, if I had a rock, I'd gladly club you over the head with it and stick you in a closet so I could marry him myself."

_

* * *

Be careful what you wish for_, Margrethe had always told her, but she had laughed and ignored her, as she always did. Where was Margrethe now? Still on her way to the convent in Montsimmard, or already there? Was she cursing her sister's name every step of the way, or had she forgiven her? And did she deserve to be forgiven?

"Is something wrong?"

The king was watching her, concern in those handsome eyes. It made Miriette dizzy, that and the warmth of his hand on hers.

"It's the smell, isn't it? I'm so sorry about that. I forgot it was cabbage season. We should have come in an enclosed carriage. Don't worry, you'll get used to it in time – at least it's not summer –"

"Nothing is wrong, my lord," Miriette said; her court Fereldan was serviceable, but she would have plenty of time to improve it. "But – " _it should be my sister here with you, not me_ – "I am only tired. It has been a long journey."

"Denerim's not Val Royeaux, I know. But it has its own charms. You'll come to enjoy it, I think. I hope, anyway."

"I am happy, my lord," she said, "as long as I am with you."

Alistair gave her an awkward smile. No, she'd only imagined it was awkward; it was a wonderful smile, because it was his.

"Well, you're with me," he said. "That you definitely are."


	2. Chapter 2

The formal betrothal was held mere days after the Fereldan party had arrived at the Dowager Princess' estate, and that very evening, this being Orlais, there was a masquerade to celebrate. No expense had been spared – not that any expense was ever spared in Val Royeaux – and the Dowager Princess' considerable ballroom was rumored to contain eight vast tables of small delicacies, twenty-seven musicians (five minstrels and a full orchestra with added Fereldan pipes, drums, and horns), and a constellation of magelights dancing overhead like jewels. The musicians were to play a suite of Fereldan dances, and although they involved altogether too much stomping, Miriette had learned the steps and was determined to enjoy them. And two of the tables were to contain nothing but the finest Orlesian cheeses, for some reason.

Or so their lady Sigrid told them, and if anyone could be believed it was Sigrid. The handsome dark-haired woman of indeterminate age had come to the Dowager Princess' estate last year to attend her daughters, and she was already that lady's close confidante in matters of entertainment – and, it was rumored, matters of state.

"Six jesters," she said as she finished sewing Margrethe into her dress of iridescent multicolored silks, "and rare fruits from the North, and in the middle of it all a life-sized statue of the King. Made of ice. There, love, I'm done, you can let your breath out now."

Margrethe let out a relieved gasp. "I'd think that would be disturbing," she said once she'd caught her breath. "To watch yourself melt down into a puddle over the course of an evening. I'm glad they didn't do one of me."

"I think it's delightful," Miriette said.

"You think everything's delightful."

"Well, isn't it? A life-sized statue of _him_! Do you think they could do me another one to keep in my rooms? Not in ice, though." Miriette sighed giddily. "I could pretend he's watching me sleep."

Margrethe reached out – not that her dress gave her much freedom of movement – and gave Miriette a solid but good-natured swat on the arm. "Careful. That's your future brother-in-law you're talking about."

"Not if I go through with my nefarious plan to steal him away from you!" Miriette said gleefully, fastening a brooch of bluebird feathers in her hair.

"You keep talking about that," Margrethe said. "I'm beginning to think you're serious." Sigrid bustled about her, adjusting her train and her bird-of-paradise hair ornaments, but watching Miriette closely.

"Really? You seriously think I'd want to go live in a country where the height of fashion is a leather jerkin with studs in it? He's a fine-looking man, but I think I'll wait for a king of somewhere I can get a decent pair of shoes."

"That's my sister," Margrethe said cheerfully. "You always have your priorities straight. " And Miriette laughed, and Sigrid fussed over the final preparations of their dress and hair, but before they departed the lady-in-waiting gave Miriette a long, understanding look, and Miriette knew there was at least one person who wasn't fooled.

* * *

She was happy for Margrethe. She was. Couldn't someone be happy and sad at the same time? Was it always a choice between delight and despair? But if Miriette had to choose, she would say that despair seemed to be pulling ahead.

Because Margrethe didn't love him. Miriette had asked her point blank, and she had said "Of course I don't! I just met him!" Love at first sight wasn't real, she knew.

Or at least she thought she knew, until the King of Ferelden had abruptly arrived in her life with his golden hair, easy laugh, and astonishingly broad shoulders. Something had changed in her, something crucial, and she knew what it was; all the squires and knights and marquis' sons she had known in her eighteen years had been boys. Attractive boys, yes, and so charming when they fell at her feet at tournaments and balls to stammer out their confessions of courtly love, but still boys, fun to play with but easy to toss aside. King Alistair was a _man_.

And she was eighteen, a woman grown, and she loved him.

It had hit her like a thunderbolt, right there in the entrance hall, and she knew she'd never be the same. She drifted through her days thinking of his kind eyes; she spent sleepless nights imagining herself held in those strong arms; and when she did manage to get some sleep, she heard his voice in her dreams. And when she had occasion to be near him – which, given the dinners and amusements her mother was lavishing on her Fereldan guests, was often enough – she could barely look at him without her heart leaping in her chest.

It had been three days. She felt like her heart would burst. And Margrethe sat near him and conversed with him and looked him in the eye like he was just some... person! Did she know that Miriette would give everything she had to be in her place?

Well, no. No, she didn't. She had no idea her younger sister's jests were, underneath it all, in earnest. If she did, she might consent to trade places – considering she didn't love him – but Margrethe had the good fortune to be born first, making her their mother's heir and therefore the correct political match. Her mother – and her aunt, the Empress Celene – had planned this betrothal. It was bad enough to cross the Empress, but woe betide her if she crossed her mother. After all, all the Empress could do was have her killed.

So no one knew. Well, Sigrid knew, but one wasn't expected to keep secrets from one's own ladies, so that was all right. And Leliana knew, but she was an old friend and trustworthy, so that was all right. Leliana had been very sympathetic, actually.

"He has that effect on people sometimes," she'd explained. "The housekeeper wants to stop him from going down to the kitchens because she's getting tired of all the girls dropping plates when they see him. It must be the Theirin charisma – from what I hear, his brother and his father had it too."

"You traveled with him! For two years! Did you ever – "

"Oh, no. No! He's very nice. But I had other things on my mind at the time. And in any case, I like my men more... complicated." She smiled, in that playful Leliana way. "I did have a friend who was interested, though the results weren't very good for her. Women have been breaking themselves on Theirin men for four hundred years, ever since Lady Shayna spelled her own doom by falling in love with King Calenhad."

"Ooh, I love that story. So romantic and sad. If only he'd loved her back."

"Even then," Leliana said, "I doubt there would be a happy ending. It's a Fereldan story. Everyone has to die at the end, preferably after giving a nice long speech about it." She took in her former student's eager expression. "You want to hear the story again, don't you?"

"I never get tired of hearing you tell it."

"Then I shall." And she did.

* * *

Although she hadn't asked, Miriette assumed the "friend" in question had been Morrigan, the beautiful, golden-eyed witch who had traveled with the Hero and her compatriots. It was rumored that she and the King had shared a night of passion before Morrigan disappeared without a trace; her heart must have been broken indeed, for she had never been found. Miriette hoped she never would be. For her sister's sake, of course.

Nevertheless, as the footmen announced her and she descended the staircase into the glittering ballroom, she kept an eye out. It would make for a good story if a stray cat in the garden or a spider on the wall suddenly transformed into an angry witch out for revenge on her beloved's new fiancee, but it might just ruin the masquerade.

And what a masquerade! There were the musicians, and there were the jesters, and the magelights dancing like stars were everything Sigrid had said they would be. But the room's brightest ornament was the guests – lords and ladies in masks, feathered and fanciful, glittering and gorgeous, peacocks and wolves and hunting cats and even a sea serpent –

And there, with Margrethe on his arm, was a lion.

Miriette had thought he would come as a mabari hound. They were the royal animal of Ferelden, after all, and adorned the national flag and crest; it was said that if you called a Fereldan a dog he would say "thank you." And indeed, several of the Fereldan knights were wearing frightening, snarling dog masks; one even had on a spiked collar. But whoever had picked out the King's costume was a genius. They'd matched the color of the mask's mane to his hair, and the effect was beyond flattering.

And there was Margrethe, in her shimmering silks and bird-of-paradise mask. The two of them stepped into the middle of the floor to open the dance, along with the Dowager Princess and the Prince, dressed as a swan and a fox, respectively. The music began; they danced gracefully, lights twinkling overhead.

It was, for lack of a better word, glorious.

Miriette simply watched for a moment, but was startled out of her reverie by a Fereldan-accented voice.

"She's very pretty."

Miriette turned. The Warden Commander Cordelia Amell, the Hero of Ferelden, stood beside her in a dress of grey and white with a silver mage's sash down the front that did absolutely nothing flattering for her complexion. She had removed her griffon mask; beneath her neat cap of ash-blonde hair, her face was pale and wistful as she watched the dance.

"You are kind to say so," Miriette said. "My sister is quite lovely, isn't she?" _But it's fairly obvious I'm prettier_, she didn't add.

"Oh, there'll be a portrait of her in every inn this side of the Frostbacks, you can count on that," the Warden said. "With those dark ringlets, and those eyes. And such huge - " she gestured vaguely - "tracts of land."

"The women in our family have a fine inheritance," Miriette said, trying not to sound too smug.

"I hear she can sing, too. Leliana says she taught you two everything she knows." She gave a short laugh. "I can't sing at all. Not at all. I've got a range of maybe half an octave. I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude..."

"By no means. My sister has spoken highly of you as well; she would be very pleased to hear herself complimented by the Hero of Ferelden."

"I wish I had your way with words," she said. "In the Tower, you know, social graces kind of go by the wayside. In a fine court like this I feel like a golem in the pantry – blundering around, knocking over the good china." She watched a bit longer as the King and Margrethe gracefully navigated the intricate dance. "They'll make a beautiful couple. She'll make a beautiful Queen."

"You are kind to say so," Miriette repeated.

The Warden smiled brightly, and, Miriette suspected, falsely. "I _am_ being rude. I'll be off then, won't I? Those darkspawn won't slay themselves." She sketched a small bow – mages don't curtsey, Maker knows why – and hurried off into the crowd.

Later in the evening, between the minuet with Ser Piet and the chaconne with the son of the Marquis de Longtemps, Leliana found her. Her former dancing mistress was dressed in red head to toe, in an enticingly low-cut gown edged with Antivan lace and a mask trimmed with cardinal feathers. "Have you seen the Warden Commander?" she said.

"Oh, maybe an hour ago – she came over and asked some questions about my sister."

"Do you know where she went?"

"She said something about going off to kill some darkspawn. More power to her, if she'd rather do that than enjoy herself." She thought of the Warden's drawn, pale face, her expression as she watched the dance. "How old do you think she is?"

"A year younger than the King. Twenty-two."

"That young! I would have put her at twenty-seven at least. Maybe even – " she lowered her voice conspiratorially – "_thirty_. Did you see those bags under her eyes? Maker forbid I end up looking like that in a few years!"

Leliana just stared at her. "Miriette," she said, "you're a lovely, kind person most of the time, I know you are, but sometimes you just have to use your _brain_. You should thank the Maker every single day that you don't have to fight like she's fought or do what she's done. So take care how you speak of her. Now, did you see where she went? She's wanted for the reel-of-four."

"She went over in – Oh look! There she is! Talking to Garet!"

Indeed, the Warden Commander was standing with Margrethe's former paramour, a tall, dark young man with a permanently mournful expression. Neither of them looked pleased. They looked even less pleased when the King, with Margrethe on his arm, approached them.

"Ooh! Do you think they're going to dance together?" she whispered to Leliana.

The musicians, pipes and drums foremost, struck up a Fereldan reel. Margrethe took Garet's arm; he regarded her warily and made no move toward her. The King stepped a little aside, gave the Warden Commander a winning smile, and held out his hand to her.

She took it; then she knelt, right there in the middle of the ballroom, and kissed his signet ring. They made a dramatic little tableau for a moment, and then she rose and, with a sweep of her skirt, headed for the door. The King stood there, stricken.

"No," said Leliana quietly. "I don't think they are."

* * *

Leliana had hurried off to find her friend. Garet had left the room as well; he'd brushed by Miriette on his way out, his expression black. Margrethe, wearing a smile that Miriette knew very well was fake, wasn't far behind.

"Which way did he go?" she whispered, her smile not faltering for an instant. "I saw him come by here, don't pretend he didn't."

"Is it my job to keep track of everyone at this party? And why are you chasing after him, anyway? It's cruel."

"Never mind that. Look, just tell me where he went!"

"The east wing. There, are you happy now?"

Margrethe said nothing, just went right past her, moving as fast as she could while trying not to look like she was running. She didn't even glance back at the King.

And that was what did it, really. If Margrethe had things to clear up with Garet, that was all well and good. But to run after him like that, when he was waiting for her – _Alistair_, she thought, with a shiver at the name – there had to be something very serious at hand when anyone could walk away from _him_ without a second glance.

Something had to be going on. And Miriette was going to find out what.

She looked around, made sure that no one was watching, and hurried after them.


End file.
